


crossing the ford

by merionettes (acchikocchi)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Tanabata, big claude has symbolism, myths and legends with claude von riegan, small claude has questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25130326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/merionettes
Summary: "You ever hear the story of the cowherd and the weaver girl?"
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	crossing the ford

**Author's Note:**

> happy tanabata! may your wishes come true. 🌌

There was an ancient folktale Claude heard once, from a wandering storyteller wintering in his father's court. The storyteller said the tale came from far beyond Almyra: beyond Fódlan, beyond even Dagda. Thrillingly and impossibly distant, to a seven year old. Look up in the sky, the storyteller said. See those two stars, brighter than the rest? 

Long ago, a beautiful girl spent her days weaving by the banks of the heavenly river. (Weaving what, Claude wanted to know. Cloth of gold, the storyteller said smoothly, from the sun's rays itself.) She was so busy weaving, in fact, that she never saw another soul besides her father. One day, a handsome young man tending his cows strayed near the bank of the heavenly river. The moment he beheld her face and she his, they fell in love. 

(If there are cows up there, what do they do all day? Is there grass? Why can't we see them?

They're black cows. They blend in with the night sky. 

Then how did the—

He had very good eyesight. Now, _as I was saying._ )

The girl's father blessed their union and they were married. The newlyweds had eyes only for each other—so devoted, in fact, that soon the weaver's loom fell empty, and the cowherd's flock strayed across the heavens.

(The same thing happened to my third oldest cousin. She got married this spring and Faiz, that's my oldest cousin, said even though it's been three moons already it's like they never come out of the bedcha—

How old did you say you were, little boy?

Seven this month, why?)

 _Anyway._ The weaver girl's father was very angry, for the cloth of gold was very valuable, and the cows very troublesome. So he banished the cowherd back across the heavenly river, where the lovers could do no more than gaze at each other across the waters—so close, and yet so far out of reach. The weaver girl wept bitterly as she wove, soaking the cloth of gold with her tears. Moved by her anguish, a magpie—what? Oh, they're a type of a bird. I suppose it is rather a funny name.

Moved by her anguish, a magpie promised her that he would bring the rest of his flock to build a bridge with their wings, so that she might cross the heavenly river, if only the waters weren't too high. On the seventh day of the seventh moon, as promised, the magpies gathered at the river, wingtip to wingtip, and the bridge of their wings carried the girl across to where her beloved waited on the far bank. All too soon, the waters began to rise, and it was time for the girl to return to her loom. But the magpies promised that they would return in one year's time, on the very same day.

And now every year, on the seventh day of the seventh moon, the magpies come to the riverbank so that the two lovers may be reunited. But should on the seventh day it rain, alas, you will know that the waters of the heavenly river are too high to be bridged, for—the storyteller finished with a flourish—the raindrops are the weaver girl's tears for her beloved. 

Claude had some questions. How many magpies, exactly, did it take to support the weight of a person? Were they like wyverns, but smaller? Wouldn't it make more sense for the girl and the boy to build themselves a real bridge? She could have woven ropes, and pulled him across. Or they could have built a raft, even Claude could probably build a—

At this point the storyteller got irritated and flounced off, and Claude spent the next several days pestering his mother and his oldest cousin, who didn't mind him as much as the others did, about the tensile strength of magpie feathers. Everyone know those stars the storyteller was pointing at were eagles, anyway. The soaring eagle and the stooping eagle, the flyer and the killer.

The story stuck with him, though. He thought of it when the stars thickened and massed in the sky at the height of the seventh moon, with the two eagles were at their brightest. He thought of it years later, when he first read of Fódlan's rituals to celebrate the return of the Blue Sea Star, wondering if in some distant past the stories were connected. 

He thought of it now, looking out at grey skies from his favorite window seat, as rain poured down over Fhirdiad. No passing summer storm, this. It was hard not to say it felt symbolic.

A voice behind him said, "And what's captivated your attention this time, may I ask."

Claude tilted his head back, so he was looking at Dimitri upside down. "Oh, you know me. Scheming away."

"Really," Dimitri said, sounding amused. "Is there a lot of... scheming inspiration... to be found in the—" He leaned forward to look out the window, and Claude caught a familiar whiff of fresh soap and spearmint oil. "—inner moat gardens?"

"There could be, actually," Claude said. "Prime location for a secret rendezvous. But probably not in this weather." He straightened up and turned around to face Dimitri properly. Dimitri must have come from a council meeting; he had that noble suffering look. "You ever hear the tale of the cowherd and the weaver girl?"

Dimitri frowned, giving the question—as with all things—his full consideration. "I can't say it sounds familiar."

"Old story from—actually, I don't know where. I should look that up."

"Something you don't know," Dimitri said. "Surely not."

"Oho," Claude said, grinning, "getting cheeky, aren't we, Your Cleverness." These days Dimitri just rolled his eyes when Claude brought out the nicknames. It was extremely cute. "No, I heard it when I was a kid. Tragic tale of star-crossed lovers. Literally, they're stars. They can only meet once a year, and if it rains they're out of luck."

Dimitri glanced beyond him to the rain pounding the window glass. "I see," he said. "Quite a cruel sentence."

"Right?" Claude agreed. "One measly visit a year, and if one little thing gets in the way, they miss out." 

Dimitri looked down at him. Sometimes Claude forgot, when it had been a long time, just how improbably perfect that face was. You could cast him in marble and put him in a gallery. He reached out and tugged at the hem of Dimitri's doublet, just to anchor himself.

"Melancholy," Dimitri said, "but perhaps of limited application to one's personal life."

"Oh, yeah?" Claude said. "You don't think we're plenty star-crossed?"

Those blue eyes were so steadfast. So certain.

"It's raining," Dimitri said, "and you're here."

Claude slid his hand up the front of Dimitri's doublet. Closed his grasp on cloth of dark Faerghus blue. Pulled Dimitri down, from that ridiculous height, until they were separated by no more than a breath.

"You bet I am," he said, against Dimitri's lips.

**Author's Note:**

> "hm," i asked myself as i opened a new word document, "which fe3h ship would be _literally star_ \--ah."
> 
> the story is the tale of the cowherd and the weaver girl, with slight liberties. the names for vega and altair really do come from the arabic for swooping eagle and flying eagle, respectively.
> 
> find me on twitter [@matchedpoint](http://twitter.com/matchedpoint)


End file.
